Only a Traitor
by xoxcrescentmoonxox
Summary: You are not pathetic. You are not feebleminded. You are not a weakling. No, what you are is the worst thing of all. You are a traitor. Peter Pettigrew, on the moments he betrayed his friends. Oneshot.


The forest is dark and silent as you hold your wand at the ready, fingering it gently with the rhythm of the wind in the trees, listening for the slightest sound.

_Snap!_ goes a twig, and instantly you are alert. You want to shout Stupefy, but there might not be anyone out there yet; you might give your position away. So you are still for moments. Minutes. Hours. Eternity. Finally you think it was your imagination and relax, wiping beads of sweat off your forehead with a shaky hand. But just then a jet of red light comes whistling through the trees. You drop to your knees and it flashes over your head into a time wizened birch, sending splinters flying through the forest suddenly awash with red light.

Almost mechanically, you fire jinxes into the underbrush, heart sinking as you realized that double what you cast is coming back at you.

Expecto Patronum, you shout, attempting to call on the other Order members. But the battle is too harried to draw on a strong enough memory, and only a whispery shadow escapes. Curses are exploding all around you now, and fear settles in to the pit of your stomach. You know you won't be leaving these woods unharmed.

A stream of orange light knocks the wind out of you and you fall down, left arm beginning to grow at an alarming rate while your wand hand shrinks into your shoulder. Your only weapon clatters to the ground, and you are at their mercy.

A woman steps from the deep shadow and stands over you, dark hair wild around her face as it practically crackles with energy. Petrificus Totalus, she says, mouth barely moving. Your legs lock together; your lopsided arms clap to your sides.

Two men approach and flank her. The first is burlesque and tough looking; a sneer crosses his face as he glances at you on the ground. Even though he could kill you with his little finger, the other is infinitely more horrible. His hair is long and matted, and his teeth have the slightest of points on the end. But it's his face that you dread, because it's the face that you see on your friend every full moon; the face of a werewolf.

The wolf man snarls and looks to the woman. You tremble inside a little, because the moon is half full yet he still has a long, snout like face and a slightly furred body. He is a man who has let the animal take over.

I could take care of him, he says to her, raising his upper lip. You see the slightly pointed teeth, yellowed with bloody strips of skin hanging off, and you hope death will be quick; that it won't hurt for long.

But, No, snaps the terrible woman, and she raises her wand. I've got it, she says, eyes glinting in the wavery light. She whispers, Crucio, and suddenly you can't breathe.

_ohmerlinohmerlinohmerlin no one ever told you what torture was really like but your body burns with white hot fire worse than anything you've ever felt and you writhe and tear at your skin with your hands but wait that can't be right because there's a bind on you and no you aren't moving but ohmerlinohmerlin if you could you would rip the layers of pain away right down to your soul if only you could get rid of this horrible feeling and ohmerlinpleasemerlin you've been good so why can you hurt like this and you'll do anything for this woman if she'll make this stop but you don't know how much longer you can survive and slowly the edges of her face start swimming around and ohmerlin don't let this be where you die but the world is going fuzzy and this could be the end only she looks down at you and your closing eyes and flicks her wand and the spell ends and you're alive_

Take him back, she hisses, then looks to the wolf. In one piece, she adds, and even though he could her kill in a bite, he shuffles his feet and whines submissively. The woman turns on her heel and Dissaperates as the flames in your body slowly stop burning.

What have you done to deserve this? you wonder as the were-man growls softly at his larger companion.

Can't we? he asks in a low, rumbling voice. Such a small morsel could go unnoticed, he adds, eyes narrowed with the prospect of a kill.

He could be valuable to the Dark Lord, replies the other man. His voice is soft for such a big person, and you wonder if you know him because he sounds so familiar. I'm alerting him, he says, then pulls back his sleeve and touches the tattoo of the Mark that you know is there.

You realize that you will be meeting Lord Voldemort, and that there really is no hope for escape now. You call pictures of your family to mind; of Dumbledore; of the Order. If you are lucky, you won't be tortured. If you are lucky, you will be killed.

Terror settles into the pit of your stomach, a horrible dread that is millions of times worse than whatever you were feeling earlier. You think about your friends and you wonder what they would do here, and you decide you will try to be brave like James, brash like Sirius, fiery like Lily, candid like Remus. In the back of your mind you wish you could switch with one of them, because you know that they would find a way out.

There is no more time for thought, because, Stupefy, the big man says, brandishing his wand at you, and you immediately lose consciousness.

* * *

You come to; the first thing you notice is that you can move now, so you raise your head and realize you are suspended in midair, floating over a long wooden table. When you look down, the Death Eaters seated there rise.

Nice of him to finally join us, says a man with long silvery hair. The woman of before rises.

Now we call the Dark Lord, she tells you, looking right into your eyes and smiling as if she's telling you she's about to give you a tin of candies. You feel fear rising in your throat and try to jump down, but your wrists and ankles are bound in invisible shackles.

Brave like James, you remind yourself. Brash like Sirius, fiery like Lily, and candid like Remus. You repeat the words like a mantra in your head, hoping that this will be enough, even as your gut knows it won't be.

You can feel that he's there before you see him; when he enters the room there comes a sudden chill that you know can only mean one thing. A part of you wants to look away from him as long as you can, but at the same time you feel an incredible pull of curiosity about this legend. In the end you think, brave like James, and flip as best you can to face him.

Nothing Dumbledore or Fabion or Alice said, all of whom have come face to face with him, could have prepared you for this. He is human, and yet he is not. Taller than anyone else in the room, his deathly pale skin seems to flicker in the light of the many candles placed around the room. A shock of dark hair is the only utterly human thing you see on him, but even that is slicked back and tied at the base of his neck.

What is this, Bellatrix? he asks the woman. His cold, clear voice chills sends tingles down your spine.

It's one of the resistors, she tells him with a dismissive flick of her hair. I thought he might have valuable information for you, she adds.

The Dark Lord nods. Mhm, he muses, one spidery finger coming up and stroking down your arm. You shudder at his very touch, but he continues as if he hasn't noticed, addressing only Bellatrix. Do you think he knows about—? he asks, pausing now, glancing at the woman with simmering frustration.

Bellatrix smiles and runs her tongue around her upper lip. If he does, she says, Then we can kill tonight.

His eyes glimmer. Not tonight, Bellatrix, he tells her. But soon. We will kill soon.

You wonder what this thing that they're talking about is; this thing that they hope you can give them information on. You hope that you know nothing, because they can Veritaserum you all they like, and you won't know, and they'll have to let you go. You tell yourself that at least, because you've decided you'd rather live your last hours in hope than in resignation.

Now the Dark Lord walks up to you. What is your name? he asks as your eyes bug out, staring in horror at his translucent skin, his skeletal body. Your name? he repeats, and although his tone is measured you can feel his anger rising.

Peter Pettigrew, you reply. Your voice rings out loud in your ears, and just hearing your name gives you courage. You are Peter Pettigrew, and you are in the Order, and this is your chance to do as you vowed when you joined: to fight the Dark Lord.

Brash like Sirius, you tell yourself, and so you add cheekily, Yes, I'm Peter Pettigrew, would you care to introduce yourself?

He makes a noise in the back of his throat and flicks his wand. Instantly, the shackles tighten painfully around your wrists and ankles. Brash like Sirius, you decide, is a bad idea.

Well, Mr. Pettigrew, he says tightly. Perhaps I shall introduce myself after all. Maybe you've heard of me? I am Lord Voldemort.

You jut your chin out and remain silent, trying to look defiant.

Now, he continues, In the past few months I've had a bit of a problem. I need to track down certain Order members, and I think maybe you can help me.

You narrow your eyes and glare at him, daring him to ask you.

He does. Not looking your way anymore, the Dark Lord whispers, Frank Longbottom. Alice Longbottom. James Potter. Lily Potter. Both families just had infants.

Now he pauses; stares straight at you. Do you know why that is important, Mr. Pettigrew? he asks.

You shake your head, even as your mind jumps to little Neville and Harry. Neville, with his gurgling grin and little rolls of pudge and Harry—sweet little Harry. You are not his godfather like Sirius, but you are the one who can get him to stop crying; who can always make him laugh; who he gums at when you walk in.

You are his Secret Keeper to guard against Sybil Trelawny's prophecy. And suddenly, you have an idea of what the Dark Lord is about to ask of you. Panic rises in you like a wave, pushing every other feeling aside as you understand that now, it's not just your life at stake. Six others might be endangered too.

There is a prophecy, Voldemort continues. A prophecy that states that a baby born at the end of July to parents who have escaped Voldemort three times, and he will have the power to defeat me, he says, staring directly at you.

Not Harry, not Neville! you think, and you grit your teeth, tightening your face and turning away from the Dark Lord.

He's scared, Bellatrix says, coming closer to you; mocking you. The little man wants to save his little friends, she taunts, a smile playing at her mouth.

Then you realize something else; that the Dark Lord doesn't know that you know about the prophecy. That he's revealing an incredible amount of secrets to you, secrets that from all you've heard, wouldn't even be trusted with many of his Death Eaters.

But you know that dead men tell no tales.

Voldemort smiles now, a thin spidery line that only hardens his face. So you see, Mr. Pettigrew, he tells me, I'm sure you can understand why I need your help. I need you to tell me the whereabouts of the Longbottoms or the Potters.

You don't know where the Longbottoms are, and you'll take the Potter's secret to the grave. You wouldn't turn either of them over to the Dark Lord for anything.

Fiery like Lily, you tell yourself. And then you glare at him, eyes snapping. You think I'd betray my friends, you say. You think I value my own life above theirs?

And then you wonder, do you? Do you wish James or Sirius was in your place because you think they'd be able to get out of this, or because you'd rather it be them that died.

The Dark Lord's black eyes stare into your own, and he mutters, Yes. I do think you value your life above theirs. Maybe not yet, but I can make people do anything I want.

Not me! you reply hotly.

Maybe, he answers, then flicks his wand. Crucio, he whispers.

_pleasemerlin not this again you're not that strong and you can hear him cackling in the background of the roaring of this fire in your ears as you ask why me and wonder what you've done to deserve this now screams echo in your mind but they are tortured dying filled with agony and although they have to be yours they can't be because you're not tortured and dying in agony but wait you are and you're not in control of your words anymore so you don't know what you've said to make the curse slow and the fire recede_ but finally when the pain subsides a little you realize what you just cried.

I'll tell you, you screamed.

Bellatrix is on your left, eyes hungry and burning with the fervor of a coming death as the Dark Lord paces back and forth to your right, the hint of a triumphant smile appearing already.

Well? the woman asks in a strange, high voice. You are suddenly mute. Fiery like Lily, you tell yourself.

I won't say anything! you shout, and just like that, Voldemort snaps around to face you.

I don't like a liar, he murmurs, and draws his wand.

No, my Lord, allow me, Bellatrix whispers, drawing her own. At his nod she casually flicks it at you and

even though she did it nonverbally ohmerlin this is worse than in the forest and worse than voldemort and pleasemerlin you don't want to talk but it's so hard not to just burst out with whatever they need and the fires tear into your flesh and you rip at your hair and your chest and even when you hear a crack as more pain shoots through your right leg it doesn't matter because none of it goes away and ohmerlin you are at your breaking point pleasegodric don't let this be it pleasegodric give me your courage give me your courage give me your courage your courage your courage THEY'RE IN GODRIC'S HOLLOW!

Godric's Hollow, he repeats musingly, brandishing his wand towards you and ending the curse. Your body is raw and aching, but all you are thinking is that that hurt is nothing compared to the anguish of betraying your friends.

You aren't brave like James anymore. Not brash like Sirius, and certainly not fiery like Lily. There's only one option left.

Press him for more, the silver haired wizard mutters unconsciously, interrupting your train of thought. You emit a distinctly rat like squeak and turn the other way, right into Bellatrix's face.

She flicks her hair at you, then wets her lips. Their harsh redness is vibrant as she looks over you to her master. Yes, she purrs, Have him give us all he has, and then we will kill them and you will reign forever.

The Dark Lord stares separately at both, not having to say a word in order for them to shrink backwards. Then he turns to you again, and it's infinitely worse.

Well then? he asks, cold eyes shining as he continues with, You know more. Tell me.

You can't bring yourself to say the words; you are a Gryffindor and a member of the Order and above all, against Voldemort. But he stands in front of you now, and you've already made the error that's fatal to your friends. You let Voldemort into the Fidelius Charm; it will be hard pressed for anyone to save them now.

They are as good as dead now, Lily, James, and—your gut wrenches—Harry. What can you do for them? Save yourself.

Mr. Pettigrew, Voldemort murmurs, an edge of steel to his voice.

No, you think, you will never be brave like James, brash like Sirius, fiery like Lily.

But you can still be candid like Remus.

Lily and James and the baby are in Godric's Hollow, you choke. Near Bathilda Bagshot. I'm their Secret Keeper. No one knows that but them, Sirius Black, and Albus Dumbledore.

You quiet, not sure what will happen now. Self preservation has kicked in, and, disgusted with yourself, you find yourself hoping to Merlin that somehow, even though they will surely die, you will be alright.

Alright, you think derisively. You know that you will never be alright again. The Dark Lord's cold smile and Bellatrix's flushed face tell you that your friends' fates are sealed; that yours may be as well. You just don't know how it will be.

What, you wonder, will your legacy be? Certainly nothing like that of the great wizards you have admired. You will be called pathetic for what you are doing; a feebleminded, dispassionate shadow of your friends.

You are not pathetic. You are not feebleminded. You are not dispassionate.

No, what you are is the worst thing of all. You are a traitor.

* * *

**(exceptionally long) A/N: A HUGE thanks goes out to the wonderful Jay (msllamalover) for turning this mess of a story into something readable xD She has some great stories herself, so you all should check her out now that you're done with this.**

**On another note, I really hope that reading this made you think of Peter a little differently, and see him in more shades of gray instead of the way he's portrayed in the movie which has carried over to fanon. Although he turned bad, he wasn't always bad, and the reason for writing this oneshot was to try to bring out that side of him.**

**Thanks for reading, and I'd love feedback on this - so hit the pretty green button! -Crescent**


End file.
